Drawing Down the Mist Read online

  Drawing Down the Mist

  Maria Romanova watched as her family was slaughtered while she was spared…sort of. Today she is Sasha Rudin and very few know her true identity. She has one mission: to find and put an end to the alliance of monsters that turned her into a vampire. A chance encounter with Dee Arkin, a far too curious novelist, leads to complications Sasha could never have imagined. Danger, peril, and most surprising of all, love. Together they fight the forces of darkness that want to rule the world, and pray they succeed before those very forces destroy their chances of a future together.

  Praise for Sheri Lewis Wohl

  She Wolf

  “I really enjoyed this book—I couldn’t put it down once I started it. The author’s style of writing was very good and engaging. All characters, including the supporting characters, were multi-layered and interesting.”—Melina Bickard, Librarian, Waterloo Library (UK)

  The Talebearer

  “As a crime story, it is a good read that had me turning pages quickly…The book is well-written and the characters are well-developed.”—Reviews by Amos Lassen

  Twisted Echoes

  “A very unusual blend of lesbian romance and horror…[W]oven throughout this modern romance is a neatly plotted horror story from the past, which bleeds ever increasingly into the present of the two main characters. Lorna and Renee are well matched and face ever-increasing danger from spirits from the past. An unusual story that gets tenser and more interesting as it progresses.”—Pippa Wischer, Manager at Berkelouw Books, Armadale

  Twisted Screams

  “[A] cast of well-developed characters leads you through a maze of complex emotions.”—Lunar Rainbow Reviewz

  Vermilion Justice

  “[T]he characters are so dynamic and well-written that this becomes more than just another vampire story. It’s probably impossible to read this book and not come across a character who reminds you of someone you actually know. Wohl takes something as fictional as vampires and makes them feel real. Highly recommended.”—GLBT Reviews: The ALA’s GLBT Round Table

  Drawing Down the Mist

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  Drawing Down the Mist

  © 2019 By Sheri Lewis Wohl. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13:978-1-63555-342-0

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: February 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Melody Pond

  By the Author

  Crimson Vengeance

  Burgundy Betrayal

  Scarlet Revenge

  Vermilion Justice

  Twisted Echoes

  Twisted Whispers

  Twisted Screams

  Necromantia

  She Wolf

  Walking Through Shadows

  The Talebearer

  Drawing Down the Mist

  To my family.

  You might not always get me, but you always have my back.

  To me belongeth vengeance and recompence;

  their foot shall slide in due time:

  for the day of their calamity is at hand,

  and the things that shall come upon them make haste.

  Deuteronomy 32:35

  The Holy Bible (King James Version)

  Prologue

  Fifty Years from Now

  “You have to do it.” The old woman with the snow-white hair lay back against the soft, green pillows and closed her eyes. “It’s critical.” A fire was blazing in the big stone fireplace, and even though she was covered with blankets, she still shivered.

  “No one will believe me.” It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought of the very same thing at least a hundred times. She just couldn’t shake the feeling that it was pointless. No one wanted to remember what had happened all those years ago, and that included her.

  “Oh, my darling. When exactly have you ever cared whether anyone believed you?” She laughed, though the sound came out more as a cough. Her frail body shook with the effort.

  She had a point. Once she’d cared about a great many things. Friends, family, honor. A long, long time ago. For many years now the only thing…the only one…she cared about was the woman on the sofa. She was her whole reason for existence. She made this interminably long life bearable. She made everything that came before and after important.

  Now, this phase in life was ending. They had lived and loved and shared the moments that made what their world had become something worth enduring. They had helped to save so many, though the ghosts of those who had perished still haunted her. No matter how many years rolled by, she could still see their faces as if they were standing in front of her right now.

  Her own single-minded, blind revenge had been sweet yet at the same time bitter. She had won a battle waged over the course of a century, but in the years since, she’d wondered too many times to count if the cost had been too high. Her victory had come at a very high price, and for that reason, regret had been her constant companion.

  Her gaze fell upon the old, frail woman. As she looked at her familiar face, she didn’t see her age or infirmity, for in her mind’s eye she could still glimpse the youth and vigor that had first captured her interest. The smile and the sparkling eyes. The quick wit and the sharp mind. Exciting didn’t even begin to describe the relationship they’d had. Still had. It was different these days, but it had lost none of its shine, at least not to her.

  “I care what you think.”

  The old woman pushed herself up to a sitting position and with bony hands tucked the blankets beneath her legs. Wispy white hair floated around her face, feathering against her high cheekbones. Tiny red stones hung from her ears, reminding her of a day many decades past when she’d walked into that strange room and seen her for the first time. Even then, when everything in her world was going sideways, she’d known that the beautiful woman with the sweet little earrings was someone special. And it hadn’t taken her long to discover exactly how special.

  Coughing interrupted her foray into the past, and she jumped up to bring her companion a glass of water. She held it to the old woman’s lips as she took a sip. Despite the fire, the hand that patted her on the cheek was as cold as if she’d just come in from a blizzard. “Thank you, my sweet. Now, sit down and write. I won’t rest easy until you’ve finished it.”

  It wasn’t an idle threat. If she didn’t finish it, neither of them would have any respite. She returned to the table and stared down at her hands. Unlike the woman on the sofa, hers were strong and unlined. “I still don’t think it will make a difference to anyone. It was all in the past, and it should stay there. No one wants to remember.”

  The old woman slid back down on the sofa, and her eyes fluttered shut. Her voice was soft as she spoke. “It matters, and people need to know. They need to remember whether they want to or not. You can tell them. You have to tell them. For me.”

  Chapter One

 
Present Day

  She was born a princess and should have died one too. The universe, it seemed, had a different idea, for she hadn’t died at all. Or at least not yet. Sasha Rudin sat alone in her living room with a glass of wine in one hand and a gourmet cupcake in the other. Some things had changed in the last century, the quality of the baked goods she held being one. For her first nineteen years, her father had celebrated her birth with a lovely cake the harried staff prepared, but this—she breathed in the intoxicating scent of chocolate and salted caramel—was light-years away from those celebratory cakes. And she suspected the baker who made it did so with far more joy than her father’s obedient staff.

  Yet, even the luscious treat with the delicate whipped frosting didn’t chase away the shadows that plagued her every year when the fourteenth of June rolled around. Time didn’t lessen her sorrow. She stood alone with her cake, missing them as she celebrated in solitude once again. She missed them all, even that horrible creature who’d sucked in her mother with his empty promises. What a strange paradox. In life she’d hated that man, and yet in death, she would give anything to see his face once more.

  “Happy birthday to me,” she whispered before she devoured the cake and drank the wine. For anyone else, it probably would have been a sensory delight. For her, both tasted more like sawdust than gourmet items, and she still didn’t feel any better.

  How she wished to. Her wishes never came true, and in the back of her mind she knew they never would, for so many reasons. Perhaps if the one who evaded her was finally brought to justice, then she could enjoy these simple pleasures. She had her doubts that the taste of the delicate cake would ever delight her again, but meting out the justice the monster deserved would at least bring her a measure of peace, and she would give anything for peace.

  Instead, it was to be another lonely birthday filled with sadness and frustration, and the knowledge that one more year had passed in failure. She set down the now-empty glass and went to stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows that covered one full wall of the living room. Others like her would never consider building a wall of windows that would allow unfiltered light into their personal space. Sasha was different. She wanted to know it was here, to know that her home was filling with the warmth and rays of the daylight sun.

  Even if she couldn’t enjoy it.

  Knowing that her world still had it was enough. She could sleep in her space and remember what it was like to have that sun on her face, to feel it warming her skin. To sit on the patio with her sisters and laugh as the dogs ran through the grass barking and playing. To hold another’s hand and let love fill her heart.

  Yes, she wanted to remember it all. Remember it and stoke the fury that had been with her every single day for well over a century. She would pay—the one who took it all from her—and that was a promise. This birthday was unlike the others because after all the empty years, something felt different, and she believed it was the universe letting her know that the time was upon her. Hard work, persistence, and single-minded ambition had brought her to this place and this time. They had prepared her for the battle that was coming. Payment was due, and she was the one who would stand before her to collect.

  More than revenge had her stirred up. Even though the year just past had been frustrating, tomorrow was the start of a new year, and it was going to be different. Things in the world were not as they should be. Every corner was shadowed as though danger lurked just around it. When she walked the streets at night, they felt darker and more ominous than usual. On the air were whispers that left her uncomfortable. It was time in more ways than one for a revolution of sorts. As she had used the years to prepare herself, so too did others, and that had her worried. It was why she had not come to this birthday unprepared. It would not be the first revolution for her, though she truly hoped it would be the last.

  The fact that she continued to celebrate her birthday year after year, decade after decade, said something about her, and she was under no illusion what it was. She’d been waiting for this shift for over ten decades. For some reason she couldn’t explain, she’d believed all along that a day would come when the fight would commence, when all her hard work would come to fruition.

  This birthday was that day, and the realization made her square her shoulders and bring her chin up. The posture displayed more than resolution and strength; it was her birthright. Her sisters would be proud of the woman she was today, and how she wished she could share with them. She had gone to what should have been her death with the same posture, and if that day was to come now, she would once again stand before the instrument of her death with pride. Some things could not be taken away.

  Her phone rang, and she turned her back on the windows as she reached for her cell. “Talk to me.”

  Only select people had this number. The calls were infrequent and always critical. This one didn’t surprise her.

  “Something’s cooking.” Rodney Cornell never wasted words, an admirable trait. She didn’t have time for extraneous details and justifications.

  “I feel it. What have you found?”

  When one was a survivalist, most assumed that person was also off the grid. Not so for Rodney. He managed to juggle his underground lifestyle with an intricate system that allowed him to monitor everything on the grid while staying undetected and keeping his location secure. Perhaps it might be more appropriate to characterize him as a spy. Nothing got past this genius of a man, and she was proud he was her ally and not a foe. The fact that she also quite liked him was a bonus. He knew exactly what she was, what she was looking for, and had been at her side for almost two decades. He was as ready as she was.

  “They’re mobilizing.”

  Even though she was expecting the news, his words still startled her. Theorizing about something and having it become reality were two very different things. “Bastards.”

  “Yeah. Motherfuckers, if you ask me, but it’s what we’ve been waiting for. We got this, Sasha. They’re not going to know what hit them.”

  She gripped the phone. He was right, of course. They were prepared. Regardless, it had the same feel to it as all those years ago when they were herded from the palace and into house-arrest seclusion. The experience had been disconcerting. Back then, none of them had an inkling of what was to come. Today she knew what was just beyond the horizon. “Yes, it is the moment, and I’m ready.”

  To kill them, she didn’t add. Then again, she didn’t have to.

  ***

  “Look, Lydia. I’ve got to have more of a challenge. I don’t want to do another Marla book. She’s wearing me out. I want exciting and edgy, not more of the same thing I’ve been writing for the last decade. Not to sound trite, but I’m bored to tears.”

  Dee Arkin paced as she talked to her editor, Lydia Lyons, on speakerphone. Her hands were pushed into her pockets so she could resist the urge to run her hands through her hair and destroy the blue-tinged Mohawk she’d spent half an hour perfecting. It said a lot that she spent more time trying to get her hair right than working on a new book. At the moment, she’d do anything to stay away from her computer.

  “Marla has made you rich.” The near whine in Lydia’s voice got on Dee’s nerves.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Her Marla Watty detective novels had indeed made her stinking rich, no argument there. But she’d been working on a book much darker and more edgy. She desperately wanted Lydia on board with her for the project but doubted she could get her there. Her ace in the hole was the fact that she’d made Lydia and the publishing house a lot of money, and in her mind, they owed her the time to do this. If it failed, so what? Everybody was entitled to a bomb now and again. If it didn’t, well then, they should all be happy.

  “I want to do this.” She stopped pacing and stared at her computer, where research files beckoned. It had been years since she’d enjoyed the process this much. “I’m going to do this, with or without you.”

  Over the phone, Lydia’s sigh was faint and not intended for Dee to h
ear. She smiled. Her point had been made, and Lydia was smart enough to know when to give in. The high-powered and ambitious editor didn’t want to lose her cash cow. “Fine. I’ll send you a contract for this one book, and then you have to promise to send me another Marla installment. Deal?”

  Not quite. “With an option for a second book.” She could push too. People tended to think she was easy to manipulate because she was a typical writer: a bit introverted and quiet. She spent so much time inside her head and by herself, they regarded her as passive. They’d be wrong in her case. Pushover just wasn’t in her DNA.

  “Come on, Dee…”

  “An option, Lydia, or I’ll go somewhere else.” It wasn’t an idle threat. She had enough money to do what she wanted, and right now she wanted to write this new book.

  “Fine. Don’t be talking crazy now. We’ll make this work. You want to write a new book, write it, and I’ll publish it.”

  Dee smiled broader, glad Lydia wasn’t here. Lydia always liked to believe she was the one driving the deals. “Email it to Don.” She’d already briefed her agent, Don, and he was expecting both a contract for the new book with the option and the Marla book. Lydia wasn’t going to risk losing her by turning down the new proposal.

  Now that she had what she wanted, the computer didn’t seem like such a demon anymore, and she was eager to pick up where she’d left off. She ended the call and sank into her desk chair. Lydia and Don could hammer out all the minute details; she was free to write.